Sins of our Fathers

Chapter Seven

As weeks drifted into months, the world around Davian morphed into chaotic waves, going from simple normalcy to turbulence in the blink of an eye.

The effects of Uncle Ben's death had rippled through their group in surprising and unexpected ways.

Flash Thompson, once a perpetual thorn in Peter's side, had suddenly mellowed out. For reasons known only to himself, Flash ceased his constant taunting and bullying of Peter.

It was a welcome change, but Davian didn't mind it one bit.

Preparations for the school dance were still in full swing, and from what Davian knew, not much had changed on that front.

Gwen still planned on attending the prom with Flash. Peter was still going with MJ.

But while the smaller details of their lives stayed relatively the same, more dramatic changes were afoot.

Among them was the arrival of a superhero in New York City - Spider-Man.

Davian found it difficult to entirely wrap his head around the idea. Peter had gone from being a quiet kid from Queens to a city-wide icon within a fortnight.

Davian had tried to distance himself from the world of superheroes and villains as a 'contractor,' dipping his toes only so far as the fringe.

He had never desired to be a part of this world, and his encounter with Hydra further solidified that belief. However, Peter didn't seem to share his qualms and reservations.

Spider-Man was a symbol, and his fame or notoriety was plastered across every newspaper in the city.

Davian couldn't deny Spider-Man's quick rise to fame had an element of shock to it, but it wasn't entirely unexpected.

In a city like New York, where the extraordinary and the unbelievable could become ordinary overnight, Spider-Man's rapid ascent to popularity made some sense.

The public was hungry for a hero - someone who might give them hope amidst the turmoil and danger that seemed to lurk around every corner.

The newspapers and TV news channels were the first to catch Spider-Man's popularity. His heroic acts were splashed across the front pages and headlined the evening news. Each daring rescue or thwarted crime added to the growing legend of Spider-Man.

The anonymous hero's bravery was infectious. His selflessness inspired hope, and his actions stirred admiration among the city's residents. The people championed him as their protector, their beacon of light in the dark. Even when the authorities and law enforcement questioned his legality, the public stood in unyielding support of their new hero.

Social media played a significant role in Spider-Man's burgeoning fame. Pictures and videos of his daring exploits went viral. Fan accounts soared, as did merchandise emblazoned with his image.

Graffiti of Spider-Man's iconic image appeared on walls and buildings, further cementing his place in the city's popular culture.

He was everywhere - in trending hashtags, memes, and discussions online.

As time marched on, Spider-Man became as much a part of New York's identity as its skyscrapers, the Statue of Liberty, and yellow taxis.

Despite his reservations, Davian would never publicly criticize Peter or even privately question his choices.

That didn't mean he was in complete agreement.

Davian was halfway through munching on his sandwich when he saw a figure approach his table. He looked up to find MJ standing there, a friendly smile on her face.

"Mind if I join you?" she asked, already sliding into the vacant seat across from him.

Peter and Gwen were off on one of their shared interests, attending a science fair across town, which left Davian alone to enjoy his lunch.

Or at least, he thought he would be alone until MJ crashed his solo party.

"Hey, MJ," Davian greeted, swallowing his bite of sandwich. "What brings you my way?"

Her green eyes sparkled with mirth as she shrugged nonchalantly, "Just thought I'd keep you company."

It was then they fell into an easy and genuine conversation. They chattered away, talking about school, their mutual friends, and random events around the city.

But as the minutes trickled by, the topic soon veered towards a subject that Davian hoped to avoid.

MJ leaned back in her chair, crossing her arms over her chest as she considered Davian. "So, Davian," she started, her tone casual, "What about you and the dance? Got any... plans?"

Davian gave a nonchalant shrug, finishing the last bite of his sandwich. "I guess I'll go," he said in a laid-back tone. "See what the fuss is all about."

MJ smirked playfully. "Oh really?" She teased. "No date?"

"Nope," he answered, wiping his hands on a napkin. He looked up to meet MJ's expectant gaze. "Just going alone."

MJ observed Davian for a moment, her gaze thoughtful. Then, with a tilt of her head and an innocent smile, she lobbed a question in his direction, "What about Felicia? Would you consider asking her?"

Davian blinked, taken aback, but he didn't break eye contact. He saw the genuine curiosity in MJ's eyes and decided to respond honestly.

"I'm... not completely certain about Felicia," Davian voiced his doubts, his forehead wrinkling as he gave it serious thought.

"Really?" MJ responded, her eyebrow shooting up in surprise and her mouth curving into a smile that hinted at intrigue. "How come?"

Davian held his silence for a bit, gathering his thoughts. Describing his relationship with Felicia was no simple task. Their friendship, or whatever they had together, was complicated and layered.

"It's hard to understand her," Davian finally admitted, his voice a low hum of reflection. "Her motives are unpredictable. There are times when she's playful and flirty, and the next moment, she's keeping you at arm's length while deeply focused on something that's all wrapped up in her head. It's like trying to follow a shadow."

MJ tilted her head, her brow creasing in confusion. "Aren't you two dating?" she asked, her voice brimming with genuine curiosity.

Davian gave a little shrug, avoiding MJ's penetrating gaze.

"I think people call it the talking stage," he tried to dismiss with a vague explanation.

MJ chuckled at his words, letting out a light, airy laugh that made the canteen's noise seem a little less jarring. "You two were locking lips at her place, Davian," she giggled playfully. "I think you've moved way past the talking stage."

Despite the humor in MJ's voice, Davian didn't reciprocate with a laugh. "Well, I'm certainly nowhere near the dating stage," he replied. The corners of his lips twitched upwards into a faint smile. "Hell, I haven't even taken her out on a proper date yet. We mostly hang out at school or visit each other's houses."

His words seemed to cause MJ to ponder for a moment. "Sounds like you need to ask her on a proper date then, don't you?" she suggested, her tone sounding more like a statement than a question.

The suggestion wasn't a new one.

He had tried to ask Felicia out before.

"I have asked her out before, but she does this thing where she kind of brushes the question off," Davian confessed, his voice reflecting his puzzlement.

"Oh, so she's playing hard to get?" asked MJ, a quizzical look in her eyes.

"Maybe. I'm not really sure." Davian shrugged, a small, confused smile playing on his lips.

"Inherently elusive and tough to pin down?" MJ mused aloud, her eyes twinkling with amusement. "Sounds exactly like her usual antics."

Davian sighed, leaning back in his chair. "It's not that simple, MJ," he replied, running a hand through his hair. "It's not just about playing hard to get. It's more than that."

Raising an eyebrow, MJ prompted, "Like what?"

Davian thought for a moment, his gaze unfocused.

"Like she's always on guard, always careful not to let anyone too close. It's a little disheartening, to be honest."

MJ leaned forward, her elbows on the table, her face wearing a thoughtful expression.

"Davian, have you ever thought that there might be a reason she's like that?" she asked, her tone gentle.

Davian blinked, a little taken aback by her question. "A reason?" he echoed, confusion painting his features.

MJ nodded, her gaze sympathetic. "Everyone has their demons, Davian. Maybe she has some, too, and she's just not ready to let you in yet."

He understood that more than MJ could possibly know.

Hell, his demons had demons.

Davian fell silent. He hadn't considered it that way. His gaze lowered to his hands clasped on the table. "Maybe," he finally admitted, his voice barely above a whisper.

"I just might be," MJ responded, offering him a small smile. She reached across the table, gently patting his hand. "Just give her some time. When she's ready, she'll let you in," she reassured him.

Feeling a reprieve, Davian saw it as an opportunity. With a cocked brow and a considerate shift in exchange, he returned the focus to MJ, "What about you and Peter?"

MJ's eyes widened in surprise, and she let out a little chuckle, "Peter?"

"Yeah, Peter," he repeated, a teasing grin playing on his lips.

Clearing her throat, the redhead seemed momentarily lost for words. She waved her hands in front of her face, shrugging nonchalantly.

"Oh, Peter and I, we're just friends," she said lightly, her gaze pointedly avoiding Davian's.

But Davian was not so easily deterred. He leaned forward on the table, resting his elbows on it, his eyes twinkling with amusement.

"Really? Just friends?" he asked, one eyebrow raised.

MJ glanced at him quickly before rolling her eyes playfully, "Yes, Davian, just friends," she assured in an exaggeratedly patient voice. But her rosy cheeks and the twinkle in her green eyes told a different story altogether.

Davian gave a slight tilt of his head, a light smirk playing on his lips. "MJ, he's taking you to the dance."

MJ rolled her eyes again, but he could see the faint blush creeping up her cheeks.

"Well, yeah," she stammered, brushing her auburn hair back from her face.

"But it's not like a date-date." MJ tried to explain, her hands fumbling in front of her. "It's just two friends going to a dance together."

Davian leaned back in his seat, a look of concern knitting his brows together as he spoke in a hushed tone, "For the love of god, do not say that around Gwen."

"Don't say what?" MJ asked, her eyes wide with confusion.

"That you and Peter are just friends," Davian explained, emphasizing each word. "Trust me, the last thing we need is Gwen finding out that you don't like Peter the way she does."

MJ frowned, clearly taken aback by his statement. "Wait, what do you mean 'the way she does'?" she sputtered, trying to keep her composure.

"Gwen likes Peter," Davian stated slowly. He watched MJ's expression shift from confusion to realization to utter disbelief.

"Oh, I didn't...I mean, I had no idea." she stammered, shock written all over her face.

Feeling a flash of exasperation, Davian groaned, dragging a hand down his face. "MJ," he half growled, almost in disbelief. "The entire reason Peter and Gwen had that argument a few weeks ago was because you accepted Peter's invitation to the dance."

MJ recoiled, a look of pure shock etched across her face. "What? Are you serious?" she exclaimed, her eyes nearly bulging in her face. "I thought they were just arguing because of a missed science project deadline."

Davian resisted the urge to bang his head against the table.

How could someone who had such a good read on his complicated love life be so completely oblivious to the rivalry she had inadvertently sparked in their friend group?

"Ladies and gentlemen, we have an oblivious redhead," Davian muttered sarcastically under his breath.

MJ narrowed her eyes at him, her hands on her hips. "I'm sorry, but nobody mentioned this to me."

Davian sighed, figuring that it was likely, given that Peter wasn't the type to air his dirty laundry, and Gwen was far too discreet.

"Well, now you know," he said, leaning back in his seat, casting a serious look at MJ.

MJ tentatively chewed on her lower lip. "This is...a lot to take in."

Davian fought to reign in his irritation.

It was a very tough battle.

"Don't think about it too hard," Davian replied after a deep breath, "Just try to be mindful about their feelings, okay?"

With a deep breath, MJ nodded, cradling her forehead in her hands. "This is a mess," she lamented.

No shit.

The school bell echoed throughout the corridors. Around him, students hastily packed their bags, eager to escape the confines of the classroom.

Rising from his seat, Davian offered a curt nod towards MJ. "I'll see you tomorrow," he said, ensuring the conversation concluded on a positive note.

Leaving the school premises, Davian embarked on a walk down the tree-lined streets, his mind fixed on the tasks that awaited him. There were a few things he needed to organize a couple of loose ends he needed to tie up before he could switch off for the day.

One pressing concern that stuck out was his lack of personal transportation. He had a sleek, powerful motorbike, but it was mainly used for his 'contracting' jobs and was tucked away for safekeeping in a safe house downtown.

But even that was starting to wear down on him.

Aside from school buses and occasionally bumming a ride, he was mostly on foot or public transportation, which was inefficient and not always reliable.

So, he decided it was time for a change.

It was time to go shopping.

But not in the conventional sense.

No supermarket aisles or car dealership lots for him.

The place he had in mind catered to a different kind of clientele.

His destination was the mother of all black markets, a place known as 'The Lair.'

It was an underground haven located deep in the heart of the city. The Lair was the go-to spot for the city's less-than-upstanding citizens, where they could procure supplies, services, and equipment.

As the dusk gently fell upon the city, Davian set off.

I==I

Slipping into a worn pair of jeans and a plain black t-shirt, Davian finished off his outfit with a dark jacket. He wrapped a black gaiter around his lower face, the fabric snug against his skin, masking his features. Pulling the hood of his coat over his head, he left his house, journeying to his destination - 'The Lair.'

The path to 'The Lair' was not straightforward. It was nestled in the heart of the city, but reaching it required an intricate knowledge of the city's network of back alleys and deserted blocks. Davian wound his way through the maze-like streets. His journey took him through shadowy pedestrian paths, past dimly lit storefronts, and quiet, desolate neighborhoods.

The entrance to 'The Lair' was as nondescript as it gets - a rusty, metal door hidden behind a dumpster in an alley. If one didn't know it was there, it would be easy to dismiss it as nothing more than a forgotten storage room for a nearby shop.

Once he arrived at the somber-looking entrance, he came face-to-face with a sturdy bouncer. The beefy man stood guard at the door, his bulky frame filling the narrow alleyway.

Davian approached and knocked on the metallic surface. A sliding peek hole opened, revealing a pair of cold, detached eyes. A gruff voice echoed from the other side of the door, "What do you want?"

Without missing a beat, Davian muttered the day's password under his breath, a phrase provided by one of his contacts within 'The Lair.'

The guard gave him a once-over, scrutinizing him with eagle-like eyes. It was obvious he didn't fully trust Davian, but the password was all the assurance he needed. He gruffly waved Davian in after patting him down for any contraband or weapons.

After the door closed behind him, Davian found himself walking the catwalks above the bustling marketplace. The guard had shooed him off quickly, eager to get back to his post and leave Davian to his own devices.

'The Lair' was a chaotic amalgamation of makeshift stalls, sellers haggling over their products, and a slew of customers jostling through throngs of people. From relics and hard-to-find tech to information and illicit services - you can find it all here.

The air was heavy, with sounds of barter and lively chatter echoing throughout the place. Neon lights splashed an array of colors across the market, illuminating the stalls in a surreal glow. It was a place full of hustle and bustle, alive with energy and noise, an underground city in its own right. A safe haven for those who knew how to navigate its many facets and stay under the radar of law enforcement.

Looking down from his high vantage point, Davian watched inspection play out below in 'The Lair.' His heart thrummed in his chest as he dove headfirst into the thrumming chaos, ready to find what he needed and make his mark.

Moving through the chaotic maze of stalls and people, Davian's gaze was focused on finding one particular vendor amongst the myriad of sellers - the vehicle shop.

Decoding the intricate layout of 'The Lair' was no easy task. It was a tightly woven tapestry of people selling everything from rare antiques to exotic herbs and spices, secret tech, and even information. His eyes scanned the crowd, slipping from one shop sign to another, searching for the tell-tale markers that meant 'vehicles' in the coded language of 'The Lair.'

As he maneuvered his way through the crowd, Davian couldn't help but notice a few faces that stood out amongst the sea of anonymity. They were well-known figures in the criminal underbelly of the city - notorious for their reputation of infamy and notoriety.

He spotted Viktor, an elusive information dealer who had a ruthless reputation for conducting business. His gaze swiftly traveled over to Bianca Marlow, the intrepid arms dealer who allegedly had enough firepower to start her own military. Across from her, he saw the infamous petty thief known as Rat-Tail, so named for his long, slim beard.

Davian navigated the thrumming market for a few more minutes until finally spotting a neon sign featuring a stylized wheel icon.

His heart thumped with newfound excitement as he pushed through the final crowd and stood before the shop.

The shop owner was a burly, gruff man who looked like he could lift a car with his bare hands. He had a wild beard and a scruffy mop of hair, making his grizzled face even more intimidating. His voice was deep and gritty, filling the space with an undeniable presence.

He was currently engaged in a heated discussion with a skinny, twitchy man who looked distinctly out of place in the shop. The two exchanged sharp words, their conversation punctuated by emphatic gestures and irate expressions.

Around them, the shop was filled with various types of vehicles. There were sleek race cars, robust off-road four-wheelers, stylish vintage models, and a surprising number of motorbikes. The scent of oil, grease, and metal filled the air, a familiar aroma for anyone who loved machines.

However, amidst all the chrome and metal, a pair of motorbikes tucked away in the corner caught Davian's eye. They were custom models, evoking a unique blend of classy structure with a hint of rebellious intensity that instantly caught his attention.

The first bike had a pearl-white frame that glinted under the shop's sharp lights. The seat of the motorcycle was jet black, a stark contrast to the white of the frame. It had a sleek, streamlined design that screamed speed and agility, perfect for navigating the city's busy roads.

The second motorbike, on the other hand, looked like it was built for someone who preferred the shadows. With a blacked-out matte frame, it exuded a no-nonsense aura. It had a muscular silhouette, smooth lines, and a hushed roar that was as seductive as it was intimidating.

As he examined the bikes, the argument between the shop owner and the skinny customer reached a boiling point. With a final irate snort, the shop owner sent the man packing, cutting off their conversation abruptly.

Brushing his hands clean, the shop owner turned towards Davian, his face taken over by a businesslike mask. Little did he know, Davian was already sold on his merchandise.

With his argumentative customer gone, the shop owner turned his attention towards Davian. His burly form sauntered over, a no-nonsense look firmly in place on his gruff face.

"Price is non-negotiable," he grumbled, his deep voice rumbling like thunder.

Davian, undeterred by the shop owner's stern demeanor, asked the question that mattered the most. "How much?"

The shop owner seemed to scrutinize Davian for a moment, sizing him up before deciding to answer his query.

"The white one's a modified Ducati 959 Panigale," he started, his rough tone taking on a touch of pride as he nodded in the direction of the pearl-white bike. "The engine's been tweaked to give you more power. Seat's custom-made, softer than the stock one. Paint's special too - a kind of morning frost finish."

Moving to the darker motorcycle, the shop owner continued, "The black one's a custom Harley-Davidson Iron 883. She's got a distressed leather seat, glossed black front forks, and matte black bodywork. Engine and suspension got some quality upgrades, too."

Davian could tell from the shop owner's tone that he had a hand in these modifications. His seemingly gruff exterior hid a noticeable pride in his work, and Davian was captivated by the attention to detail on both bikes.

Davian took a moment to admire the Panigale's design. It was elegant and had just enough of a common touch to make it suitable for everyday transportation. It was perfect for him to blend into the crowd when he wasn't 'working.'

However, he needed something more specialized for his contractor jobs. Something that could handle high-speed chases and provide a certain level of protection and firepower when needed.

Turning to the shop owner, Davian voiced his needs. "I'll take the Panigale, but I need a second vehicle. Can you do a custom job?" Davian inquired.

"That depends on how much you want to spend," the shop owner answered, his tone titling towards interest.

Davian laid out his specifications. He wanted a high-performance motorbike built from the ground up that came with a few 'special' enhancements. He wanted concealed weapon compartments, a silent engine for stealthy getaways, improved steering for high-speed maneuvers, an added boost for when things got too heated, and a strong frame to absorb impacts.

There was a pause, the shop owner mulling over his request as he circled the unblemished Panigale thoughtfully. He seemed to be calculating the time, effort, and cost it would take to build such a machine.

Finally, he turned back to Davian, a smug smile gracing his hardened features.

"Customizing a bike with your specifications and the Panigale will set you back seventy-five grand," the shop owner declared, his hands disappearing into the pockets of his coveralls.

The price was steep, but his expenses and the medical bills for his mother had already been covered for the next three months.

Without batting an eyelid, Davian accepted the price. He knew the value of what he was asking for, and in his line of work, cost was secondary to functionality.

"Deal," Davian agreed, extending his hand toward the shop owner, ready to finalize their transaction. "When can you have it ready?"

The shop owner estimated the time, "You'll have your Panigale today. The custom bike, give me two weeks."

Davian nodded, satisfied with the timeline.

"Pleasure," Davian murmured, reaching into his pocket to fish out his trusty Swiss Army knife. He made a shallow cut on his palm, allowing his blood to drip onto a piece of cloth that he handed to the shop owner. It was an unspoken rule in this part of town - paper trails and formal signatures only led to unwanted consequences.

The shop owner nodded his approval, pocketing the cloth, and moved off to prepare Davian's Panigale for his ride home. Left to his own devices, Davian began to explore the rest of 'The Lair.'

While navigating through the tightly packed stalls and dense crowds, Davian saw a familiar face. "Selina Kyle," he muttered.

The unmistakable figure of Selina, renowned for her exceptional 'acquisitions,' was evident. She was heading towards a nondescript shop tucked in a secluded corner of 'The Lair.'

Despite his curiosity, Davian resisted the urge to follow her. Interacting with Selina in the Lair was risky - a place where everyone was watching and everything had a price.

Just as he turned his attention elsewhere, a cascade of raven hair caught his eye.

His surprise increased tenfold when he recognized the woman dove-tailing Selina.

It was Felicia.

"What the hell are you doing out here?" He murmured incredulously under his breath.

A mix of confusion, alarm, and annoyance washed over him.

He never expected her to be down here, of all places.

Davian's 'work' phone, a sleek black device specifically used for his contracting jobs, began to buzz in his pocket. His heart sank.

The ID alerted him that it was Maximillian Stross, better known as the Broker.

Flipping open the device, he activated his Bluetooth earpiece and connected it to the call. The device chimed softly in his ear, tying him to the notorious gadget mogul, Broker, and occasional meddler in criminal activities.

"Cypher here," Davian replied, referring to himself by his contracted alias.

The Broker greeted him cheerfully on the other end, "Ah, my favorite merc. It's time. I'm calling in the favor you owe me."

With a resigned sigh, he replied tersely, "Name it."

His phone screen lit up with an incoming file. Swiping his thumb across the screen, he watched as lines of code started to run on the display. The feed was encrypted and discreet, meant to leave no trace once the job was completed.

Normally, a smash-and-grab job would be as generic as they come - grab an item or a document and get out as stealthily as possible. But as he scanned through the job details, he noticed something different.

The target wasn't an item.

It was a person.

Davian's eyebrows shot up when he saw the name emblazoned on the screen of his phone - Catwoman.

His knowledge about the hardly renowned thief was limited at best - she was a notorious criminal who hailed from the gothic cityscape of Gotham and had made a reputation there, not in New York. The information he had was scarce, mostly garnered from rumors and unverified tales of scheming criminals.

It had always been a rule for Gotham's criminal fraternity - they operated in Gotham and only Gotham. They didn't spread their influence outside of the city's confines and stayed out of everyone else's territory. Davian always found that strange, but he didn't question it.

He'd heard stories of Gotham - of its ruthless gang wars, unhinged psychopaths, and its fear-inducing Dark Knight. It was a city full of frightful merriment, controlled by the Batman.

The caped vigilante was notorious for keeping his turf clean and keeping his lunatics in line. Batman seemed to work just as hard at keeping the criminals inside Gotham as he did at keeping them off the streets.

Davian mulled over his new assignment. Abducting Catwoman from Gotham was going to be a challenge, a lethal one at that. "You know I don't venture outside of New York, Broker," Davian replied with a hint of irritation.

The Broker's voice oozed with satisfaction on the other end of the line, "Because she's not in Gotham City anymore, Davian. She's been spotted in New York, believe it or not."

The response caught Davian off guard, causing him to miss a step. He regained his footing, "I don't," he stated.

The Broker's voice grew colder, "Then it's a good thing I'm good at my job. People don't pay me for my charm, Cypher. They pay me because they know I can get it done. So let's assume that's still the case."

"Fine," Davian retorted somewhat defensively. He hadn't signed up for this, taking jobs that ventured out of what he was comfortable with. However, the Broker was right. It was an easy job, or so it seemed. "Why has she decided to leave the good 'ole Gotham? It's not like this place is any better."

The Broker's voice quieted down. "Her reasons are beyond me. What I do know is that she's been stealing from the wrong people, and they want to collect. It's an easy job, Cypher. One that even fits your moral standing. Deliver her to the marked location and then leave. It's simple enough."

"And who exactly am I delivering her to?" Davian inquired, his tone cautious.

"Do you really want to know?" The Broker questioned, his voice making it all too clear that the answer might not sit well with Davian.

He hesitated for a moment. No, he wouldn't want to know. But in his line of work, not knowing could lead to disastrous consequences. He needed all the information he could gather.

"Yes," Davian exhaled, cringing even as the word left his mouth. "Indulge me."

There was a pause on the other end, and when the Broker finally spoke, his voice was filled with an unseen weight, "They are a special group, unique. Not the kind we want to cross paths with, let alone disappoint."

Davian arched an eyebrow, his mind already running through a list of dangerous organizations he knew of. "They sound like Hydra," he replied, naming the most formidable one that came to his mind.

The Broker let out a chilling chuckle, sending a shiver down Davian's spine. "You're making valid comparisons, but trust me when I say these people make Hydra look like harmless kittens."

Of coure they were.

"Sending you the details as we speak. Get it done, and remember to stay under the radar, Davian," the Broker finally said, wrapping up the call with his usual brevity.

With that, the line went dead, and Davian was left standing in the bustling Lair, a growing sense of uncertainty gnawing at his peace.

The details poured in, illuminating the screen of his 'work' phone. But his new contract and the thoughts revolving around it seemed to dull the vibrant atmosphere of 'The Lair' as his mind churned with unease.

This wasn't just another contract.

This was the start of something far more dangerous, pulling him deeper into the underworld than he'd ever been. Davian could only hope that he'd surface unscathed when this was all over.

But he never really liked the word 'hope.'

Because Hope is the first step on the road to disappointment.